Chapter 7 - The Footsteps Above
The scratching sound grew louder, accompanied by the distinct, rhythmic thud of a small rubber ball bouncing against the wooden floorboards overhead—once, twice, three times. Then came the soft, familiar giggle of a child playing hide-and-seek in the dark.
"Lily?" Clara called out, her voice cracking as she stared at the attic ladder with utter disbelief. "Lily, answer me right now! Are you up there?"
"She is not in her bedroom," Mark said quietly, having already slipped down the hallway to check the empty bed where the white stuffed rabbit—the real one—had been left sitting neatly against the pillows just moments before. "She went up the pull-down stairs while we were talking in the kitchen."
"We have to get her down," Clara pleaded, her hands grabbing Mark’s arm with desperate force. "Mark, do not let her touch anything up there. God knows what is waiting in that dust."
Mark pulled the braided rope hanging from the ceiling, and the wooden staircase unfolded smoothly with a low, groaning sigh, dropping down into the hallway. A wave of freezing, stagnant air rushed down from the darkness above, carrying the unmistakable scent of woodsmoke and wet ash—a smell that hadn't existed in this house for nearly twenty years.
"Stay here, Clara," Mark instructed, his voice tense as he reached for the flashlight on the entry table and clicked it on. The bright beam cut through the swirling dust motes dancing in the stairwell opening.
"I am not letting you go up there alone," Clara insisted, stepping right behind him with her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped drum. "She is my daughter too."
They climbed the narrow steps one by one, the wood protesting under their combined weight. As Mark’s head cleared the floor level of the attic, the flashlight beam swept across the vast, cluttered space. Boxes of old Christmas decorations, discarded furniture, and rolled-up rugs lined the eaves. But sitting right in the center of the open floor, illuminated by a shaft of pale moonlight breaking through the clouds, was Lily.
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And sitting right beside her, cross-legged on the dusty boards, was another little girl who looked identical to her in every single way—except her skin was the color of ash, and her teal sweater was scorched black at the shoulder.
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